


Of Blood And Water

by lovedsammy



Category: Supernatural
Genre: 8x23, AU, Angst, Fallen Angels, Family, Friendship, Gen, Hurt!Cas, Hurt!Sam, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post Season/Series 08, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Romance, Season/Series 9 canon divergent, Slash, Stigmata, fallen!cas, stigmata!sam
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-04
Updated: 2013-11-07
Packaged: 2017-12-17 16:41:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 20,081
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/869718
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lovedsammy/pseuds/lovedsammy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Now AU to season 9! </p><p>Post-8x23, "Sacrifice". Both of them were wounded, broken, in need of repair; both of them had done things in the name of the greater good and had ultimately failed and caused something or another to bend and break and destroy upon itself. They'd both wrecked themselves to achieve an end, and in turn wrecked others. But they couldn't have been more than two opposites on the end of the spectrum that somehow aligned at the middle-point, and now there was no going back.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. After The Rain

**Author's Note:**

> This fic will be pre-slash at first between Sam and Castiel before it moves into any romantic territory. I want to develop their friendship more first (which we HARDLY get any of), so while there is some Dean/Cas in here, that is more platonic and NOT the ultimate pairing and will be shown less and less as this story molds into Sastiel. THERE WILL BE SMUT LATER. PROMISE. There is also some very light Sam/Dean that is more than anything just brotherly, but you're free to take it how you want. :3 Also some Mooseley (Sam/Crowley) if you squint. Very hard. xD

It was slightly past dawn when the angels stopped falling. Like shooting stars, they’d plummeted to the earth below at an alarming, indecipherable rate, some so far beyond view that it was practically impossible to see where they had landed. The glimmering lights that decorated the dark sky became smaller and smaller, finally fading out as the last of the angels fell, leaving nothing but the oncoming sunrise and spaced grey clouds where hours before it had been alight, the world bearing witness to an unexplainable phenomenon. Still seated by the side of the Impala, Dean glanced over to his unconscious younger brother, who had fallen back asleep about no more than a half an hour ago, body still shuddering from the effects of the trials. Gently, he reached over and shook Sam awake, returning his gaze to the sky once more once when he felt him stir. “It’s all over now, Sammy."         
  
Everything had happened so fast. After Naomi had told him of his brother’s approaching fate, Dean had wasted no time in going to stop Sam from curing Crowley and giving in to what otherwise would have been his death — suicide, his mind reminded him; Sam had _wanted_ to die — and then the sky had practically fallen beneath them, the celestials from the dimension above being cast out by some unforeseen circumstance. Metatron had cast all of the angels onto earth as Naomi had said he would, and Castiel, who he hadn’t seen since the angel had returned back to his home in a last attempt to fix it, was nowhere to be found and Dean was worried, scared, for what might have happened to his friend. There was the issue of Crowley as well, whose status was unknown at the moment, still imprisoned inside the church. But more importantly, he had to get Sam back home to the bunker, to get him taken care of, since he was still likely dying beside him and huddled here like sitting ducks weren’t doing them any good.  
  
“Okay, Sasquatch, we’re gettin’ the hell out of here." He heaved an arm up around Sam’s middle and pulled him upwards, using the other to stabilize his brother as he helped him stand. He staggered as he lead Sam to the backseat so he could lay him down properly, barely succeeding in opening the door as well as holding onto the kid. His weight was straining Dean’s shoulders, mostly since his legs refused to support him, and the other man couldn’t help but wonder when Sam had become too big to carry. But he’d be damned if he wouldn’t get him into the car, and after a few moments of mild cursing and frustration, he successfully lowered Sam inside, careful not to bang his head against the roof.  
  
With a groan, Sam raised his head to meet his big brother’s gaze, blinking slowly in an unfocused, milky stare, and gave a grunt as another wave of pain overcame him and he folded into himself. “No. Not yet," He rasped. “We… we can’t just leave Crowley in there, Dean."  
  
“Are you kidding me?" Dean demanded in disbelief. Of all the times for Sam to turn empathetic, he chooses _now?_ “That bastard can sit there and rot for all I care! He’s the King of Hell, Sam. Someone will probably be coming for him soon, but we got to bail, get back to Kevin — find out what’s going on."  
  
Sam shook his head, squeezing his eyes shut against the pain. “No one’s coming. Not a single demon. He called before, and only Abaddon showed up and she seemed way too keen on finishing him off. He’s got no one, and if he’s human, we can’t just… we can’t just abandon him to die in there."  
  
Even without his brother looking at him, the plea in his tone was enough to make Dean sigh and rummage a hand through his hair. He didn’t have time to sit here and argue with Sam, not with the condition he was in now. It was probably best to just do as he asked, though the thought of going in and seeing Crowley wasn’t exactly one he was particularly fond of. Still, Sam had a point — if Crowley was human now, it wasn’t right to leave him chained up in there. “All right, all right," He relented, “I’ll go get Crowley. Just… yell for me if you need me, okay?"  
  
Only after Sam mumbled a barely audible “yes", Dean reluctantly headed into the church, finding Crowley in the same position he’d been in hours ago, and who didn’t make any intention to move as Dean began to undo his restraints. The metallic shackles clanged as they hit the concrete, and even after he was completely free from everything but the demonic handcuffs (Dean didn’t trust him enough to undo them), Crowley’s only movement was a slight raise of his head. “The Moose," He began quietly, “Is he all right?" His eyes met Dean’s.  
  
“Uh, yeah, he’s fine," Dean replied shortly, not feeling inclined to speak to Crowley unless he absolutely had to. “Listen up, I’m only releasing you because Sam asked me to, otherwise I’d be content with leaving your ass here for the rest of eternity. And on top of that, I don’t even know what you are anymore but Sam thinks you might be something close to a human, so I’m debating taking you back with us for a while to keep an eye on you and then if you’re a demon you can go back to Hell or what ever it is you plan to do. And if you are, you better hope it’s the last we _ever_ see of you."  
  
A shift in his gaze was the only sign Crowley gave at having heard the older Winchester, and he didn’t complain or protest as Dean seized him and lead him back to the car none too gently. The demon’s — or was it ex-demon’s? — eyebrows furrowed when he saw Sam, who was attempting to get into a proper sitting position in the car to make room for him. But Dean’s hand on the younger male’s arm halted his movements. “No, Sammy. You stay where you are, you need to rest. He can sit up front, so you can have the back to yourself."  
  
Or more preferably, he could have the front where he could keep an eye on the demon, if the guy decided to try anything. Luckily, Sam seemed to have given up tying to fight him and nodded tiredly, resting his head against the cushion of the seat, eyes half-lidded. Crowley took the passenger’s side as Dean got into the driver’s, a single glare from the hunter enough to get him in without complaint. Then they were off, Sam’s low moans of discomfort and the engine of the Impala the only sound in the otherwise silent car. More than once, Dean noticed Crowley’s gaze would shift towards Sam in what he thought resembled a sympathetic expression, but Dean wasn’t conceding to such a notion yet. Not until he knew Crowley had developed emotions, feelings — had truly changed.  
  
Not long after they left the church, however, Crowley leaned his head against the window and closed his eyes, and did not move again. Realizing the demon had fallen asleep, Dean allowed himself to relax slightly, thoughts turning elsewhere, sure for the moment that Crowley wasn’t a threat. After all, if he really were adamant on making him or his brother suffer, he would’ve tried to do it already. The trial must have, on some level, been completed. Sam’s purified blood had started a change within the demon, but the extent of how much was yet to be known. At the moment though, there were more pressing matters at hand to attend to than Crowley’s possible humanity, such as the angels, many of which he passed on the road looking lost and confused and traumatized, and though he would have liked to stop to try and help them, there wasn’t enough room in the car for so many, and more than that, he was keeping his eyes peeled for any sign of one particular angel.

"Damn it, Cas, where are you?" He whispered to himself, quietly enough that the other two wouldn’t be able to pick up on it. Although he’d had his problems with Castiel as of late, a plethora of mistrust and suppressed betrayal and anger, beneath the surface there was worry and hurt more than anything, and despite the fact that not all had not yet been forgiven, Cas was still his best friend, as much to family to him as Sam was. And family didn’t just bail on each other when things got bad, as he’d had to learn the hard way with his little brother. Chances were that Cas was probably alone, scared, and lost somewhere, and the thought of a humanized Castiel roaming the countryside, in the woods, was enough to create a pit in his stomach. _God, please, if you can even hear me anymore… just lead him here._

_Lead him home._  
  
Then at last, after what felt like hours but couldn’t have been more than minutes, he spotted the familiar shade of tan against the forest green shade of wilderness and stepped on the break with renewed vigor, bringing the car to a jerking stop. At the impact, both Sam and Crowley awakened, disoriented, but Dean had already exited the car and stopped before the edge of the woods. “Cas?!" He called, heart nearly stopping when the figure froze.  
  
At the sound of his voice, the angel turned, giving a little cry of relief. “Dean," He said weakly, approaching the Winchester. “Dean, my grace. It’s gone. Metatron, he…"  
  
“I know, Cas. It’s okay." Dean placed a hand on his shoulder sympathetically, unable to stop his lips from forming into a smile as he surveyed his friend and saw that other than being emotionally charged, he appeared to be otherwise unharmed. “We saw ‘em all fall, every last one of them. Come on, we gotta get back to the bunker, okay? Get this figured out… then we can get you your wings back."  
  
“No, Dean, you don’t understand." Castiel protested, giving a small shake of the head, expression lost and glossing over with distress. “It was my fault, all of it. My grace, it… it was the last piece. He cut it out of me, used it in his spell. The angels falling is my fault."  
  
Taken aback at the news, Dean watched him for a moment before swallowing thickly. “Cas… listen to me, okay? This wasn’t your fault. That ass-hat tricked you, tricked all of us. He left out that Sam would die if he finished the Trials, and he made you believe you were fixing Heaven and stabbed you in the back for good measure. He was the shady, mistrustful jackass — it wasn’t you."  
  
When Castiel only continued to look more insecure, he shook him lightly to encourage him. “Hey, look at me. You hearing me? This one isn’t on you. We’ll figure this out, just like I told Sammy. We’ll handle this one too, just like we do everything else."  
  
After a long moment, Castiel nodded slowly, eyes brimming with unshed tears. Clamping him lightly on the back, Dean lead him back towards the Impala, where Crowley had fallen back into a slumber. But Sam’s eyes were open and receptive as Dean made as much room as he could for the ex-angel, much more comfortable with the thought of Cas joining Sam in the back than the potential demon in the car. Sam hoisted himself upwards slightly as Cas joined him, knowing by just the former angel’s expression that he was among the many of his fallen brethren.  
  
“Sam…" He whispered in greeting, giving a low murmur in the back of his throat in relief. “I’m so glad to see you’re still alive. Are you all right?"  
  
The edges of Sam’s lips twitched in response despite the pain. “Thanks, Cas, you too." A pause, and he closed his eyes, breathing leveling out to an even, stable pace. “I will be… and I know it doesn’t seem like it now, but you will too. I promise." Castiel’s only reply was the ghost of a smile and the closure of his eyes as well, leaning towards the younger Winchester as his head lulled forward in a restless sleep.


	2. Cataclysm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Proper Sam/Cas bonding in this one and Dean and Kevin too. Might include Crowley in the next chapter since I plan to feature him a little bit, and Abaddon as well. Though make no mistake this is still fully Sam/Cas. :D 
> 
> I need interaction like burning in season 9. ;A;

Once they reached the bat cave, Dean immediately went to go collect Kevin for assistance in moving the three inside. Kevin, understandably, was worried and confused after what had happened and wasted no time in bombarding Dean with questions. The hunter answered them as briefly as he could, careful to tell him just enough to keep the questions to a minimum until he had the time to answer him in detail. Upon reaching the Impala, the youth stiffened as soon as his eyes landed on the still slumberling Crowley, lips formulating into an angry, thin line. "What's _he_ doing here?" He demanded, staying rooted to the spot and making no move to assist the hunter. "Dean, tell me what's going on _right now_ or I swear --"  
  
"He's, uh... staying with us for the time being, Kev." Dean replied, knowing the teen wouldn't like it, but feeling it was better to be bluntly honest with him. "Listen, I know you hate the guy, I do too, but it seems that little purification thing Sammy had going on was working. We don't know what he is right now, human or demon, or something in between. We've got to find out, so I figured the best course of action was to bring him here. So for now just try and bear with it, all right?”  
  
It took Kevin a few moments to collect himself, glaring hard at the back of Crowley's head before he gave Dean a stiff, reluctant nod of acceptance, and helped him first ease Sam into the house and his bedroom. Then they attended to Cas, who they quickly prepared a small guest room for, the ex-angel beginning to grow victim to the reality of sleeptalk, slurring his words as he apologized repeatedly for being the cause of the angel's descent onto Earth. More than once, Kevin and Dean both had to soothe him back into unconsciousness, Kevin more so than Dean, as the other male's ability to empathize was limited and he found himself needing help with the 'angel-turned-human' comfort exercise. Luckily, Kevin was a great help and in no time, Castiel had fallen into a deep sleep for the first time in his existence as completely human.  
  
Last was Crowley, who was directed airily to the dungeon (mostly by Kevin's demand, though Dean had no arguments), free of any shackles or restraints, since the handcuffs seemed to be working sufficiently enough. Once the three had been properly situated and taken care of, Dean sat Kevin down with a glass of whiskey and a six pack and began to go through the events of the last twelve to eighteen hours, starting with after what had transpired after Naomi had told them that the trials were going to kill Sam and Dean had gone back to the church to stop him. "By the time I got there, he was centimeters from Crowley," He explained. "About to actually go through with the whole palm-to-the-face. He probably would’ve too, if I didn’t talk him out of it.”  
  
He took a particularly large drink of alcohol and shook his head with a grimace. “Nah, scratch that; not even me talking him out of it almost changed anything. Even after I told him he was going to die, stupid son of a bitch wanted to go through with it, the whole freaking thing, but I finally got him off that train even if seconds later he was practically dying anyway. It almost didn’t matter that he’d stopped the damn thing."  
  
"What?" Kevin replied urgently, eyes wide, setting down his glass. "But... if he stopped the trial, he should be fine, right? He should live. He's alive right now, isn’t he? So maybe he’s fine, Dean — "  
  
Taking another long swig of beer, Dean forced down a bitter laugh and ran two fingers across his temple fighting off a headache. "Barely. The kid's hanging in there, but you’re right, stopping the trials should've meant that he'd be good. But I don't think that's the case right now. Seems they had too much of an effect on his body."  
  
Kevin frowned, giving a small shake of the head. "I may not know all about what Sam’s going through with this, but I do know one thing. Your brother is tough as nails, Dean. I'm sure he'll pull through. And anyway, Castiel is here now. Isn’t he the last of the angels?"  
  
"No, he's not, actually... he's like all the rest of them now -- incredibly human. Metatron used his grace to make that spell that cast all the other flying ass-monkeys out. So now we got nothin’. The way I figure it, we're all royally screwed unless we find a way to reverse what he did upstairs and restore Sam's health somehow."  
  
"Well, maybe not — we still have the angel tablet," Kevin reminded him. "To me, it's simple: I read that thing, find out if there's a way to reverse it. And then open the gates back up and get the angels back home." He reached out to grab the tablet in the middle of the table, surveying it deeply. "I mean, if you can _close_ the gates, there should be a way to open them again too."  
  
Dean raised an eyebrow, setting down his glass with surprise. “Wait a second, I thought you said you were out? What, did Cas’s little pep talk actually motivate you or something? You seemed pretty done to me.”  
  
The teenager shrugged nonchalantly, returning his gaze from the tablet to Dean once more. “Maybe it did,” He said cooly. “But maybe it’s also the fact that you were right. You said it before, Dean — we’re never out, not really. So why not just buckle up and go riding down this slope and just do what we can than striving for pipe dreams? My life stopped being normal the minute I became chosen to be a prophet, the minute that bastard down in the basement killed my mother; no going back now — not for any of us.”

* * *

  
When Sam came to, it took him a relatively long time to realize he was in bed back at the bunker. And night had fallen, making it just over twenty-four hours since the angels had descended to Earth. With a loud groan, he forced himself into a sitting position, gulping down the glass of water that had been graciously left on his bedside table and ran the back of his hand over his eyes sleepily. It felt like he'd been asleep for over a month rather than a few good hours, though while his eyes were far more rested now than they had been, his body still felt as if it had been run over by a train — or more accurately, twenty. And his vision kept going in and out, his frame shivering with fever. The trials had truthfully decimated him, in ways he'd never been before physically, still taking their toll on his withered body.  
  
Lying back down, he took a moment to collect himself before he decided to attempt walking and going to visit the others. His thoughts drifted back and forth, towards Crowley, (had the trial worked, despite the fact that he'd stopped it?) towards Cas, (human now, like all the other angels) towards Dean, (had he slept at all since they'd returned back home?) — it was all a big mess up in his head, likely more complicated by the fever. Over and over again as if on a loop, Dean's words from back in the church came back to him, as well as Sam's own. He'd let loose, revealed all of his pent-up feelings and emotions, and Dean had pulled him back from the ledge once more, just before the brink of death. To think he could've been dead right now, if Dean had waited just a few seconds longer to barge in through that door.  
  
 _Don't you dare think there is anything, past or present, that I would put in front of you!_ That was what Dean had said... and somehow, Sam had willed himself back from the trials, let go of the ambition to finish the task, only Dean being enough to make him do so. Dean's utter and complete forgiveness and love was truly the only thing that had saved him. And though he was glad for it on some level, happy that Dean still saw him in the same regard he always had, he couldn't help but wonder when — not if — the next time he messed up would be enough, that Dean would stop trying to save him all together. Or perhaps it was just the high dosage of drugs he'd taken once he back that was talking.  
  
"Definitely the drugs," He muttered, swinging his long legs over the side of the bed and attempting to stand. He swayed on the spot, but gripped the edge of the wall as a crutch as he walked. He was barely out the door when he heard it, down the hall from one of the guest rooms, the unmistakable sound of Castiel’s voice. And from the distressed and panicked cries emitting from behind the door, he was very certain that he was having his very first nightmare.  
  
Reaching his doorway as he moved against the wall, Sam peered inside and swallowed back the lump in his throat. Cas was curled in on himself in a fetal position, rocking back and forth as he talked, cried, in his sleep. Most of it Sam couldn’t make out, likely little tidbits of Enochian the angel still subconsciously remembered, but other words were clear as day. Like the fact that he was apologizing, bearing the guilt, for what had happened to his brothers and sisters. There were tear tracks – some dried, some fresh – on the ex-angel’s face, small breathless gasps escaping his parted mouth as he slept restlessly.  
  
“My fault... all of it... sorry... so sorry...”  
  
As quickly as he could, Sam made his way inside the room and over to the other man, reaching out a hand gingerly to place on Cas’s shoulder. “Cas,” He called softly, shaking him in an attempt to rouse him. “Cas, hey, you’re dreaming. Wake up. It’s okay.”  
  
Castiel’s eyes snapped open and in the span of a second, he had moved himself to the farthest edge of the bed, away from Sam, wide eyes alert and afraid. After he seemed to register that he wasn’t, in fact, still experiencing the nightmare, he began to relax, giving a long, drawn out breath as he calmed, wiping a sleeve on his face. “I’m sorry, Sam. I thought I was — ”  
  
“Being confronted by the other angels?” He guessed sympathetically. “Yeah, I figured it was something like that. You were having a nightmare, Cas. You’re safe. We’re at the bunker.”  
  
Cas simply nodded, taking more time to gather his bearings. Sam studied him for a long moment, giving an inward sigh. He didn’t know the extent of what Cas had suffered, going from angel to human in mere moments, or what all had transpired; all he knew was that the angels had fallen by something Metatron had done. He could tell, though, that it had affected his friend greatly and he was probably more messed up in the head than Sam was at the moment.  
  
After what felt like a long time — minutes, or perhaps hours —  Cas spoke again. “How do you cope with the process of sleep? If such visions, such images, are always so present from behind your eyes? Is it always similar to that? Sleeping?”  
  
“No, not always,” Sam assured him. “Sometimes sleeping is good, peaceful even. Other times, it turns to hell, and... it sucks that had to be your first experience with it. I’m sorry, Cas.”  
  
"It does... _suck_ ,” Castiel agreed, making tasteful usage of the term Sam had just used. “Perhaps my next and future forays into sleep will be less unpleasant.” He paused, as if pondering for a moment, before he sighed once more. “Sam.... Metatron didn’t just... take my grace – he _took_ it.”  
  
“He cut it out of me,” He explained at Sam’s inquisitive expression. “Right here.” Gesturing with his hand on the hollow of his throat, he could still imagine the angel blade and the slit it made in his skin, the way it felt as the light from his essence left him. “He just took it from me, like it was meant for him, like it _belonged_ to him...”  
  
Lowering himself down to sit on the end of Castiel’s bed, Sam listened attentively, forehead wrinkling with sympathy. “I’m so sorry, Cas. Really.” It was slightly awkward, sitting here conversing with him, considering that they’d barely spoken to each other as of late, and Cas was divulging such personal and traumatic memories with him. More to the fact that Cas had always had a more established bond with Dean than him anyway – wouldn’t the other hunter have been a better choice for professing this kind of thing? “Have you, uh... have you told Dean this?”  
  
“He knows the essentials, but no.” Cas replied, with an inclination of the head. “I thought perhaps he might not have the emotional — ” He struggled, as if searching for the correct term, “ — _capacity_ to understand completely. After all, he’s always been human.”  
  
Sam raised his brows slightly in surprise. “And, what....? The reason you’re telling me this... is it because.... well.... I’ve always been, you know.... something less than human? You know... because of what’s inside of me?” An edge of hurt had seeped into his tone, and Castiel seemed to realize he had said something that Sam had taken as offensive, and he shook his head apologetically.

“No, that isn’t what I meant, Sam. I’m sorry if that came across as offensive. I meant that you have something foreign to your nature inside of you, something that to you have felt as though is the basis for your entire make-up. I think more than anyone, you could.... relate.”  
  
When Sam only stared at him with an understanding gaze, he took that as a sufficent enough apology and continued. “I’m speaking of imagining your entire life being something, something you know you are, something you take pride, and contentment in. And then suddenly, you’re something else, because of what someone else has done to you.” The meaning in his words became clear, and the younger Winchester gave a mute nod of comprehension. To Cas, what Metatron had done to him was similar to what Azazel had done to Sam, but rather than taint his blood, the archangel had stolen something from him — everything that had made him an angel. And Azazel had stolen Sam’s humanity, infected him with that demonic poison that had infiltrated his veins and made him distorted and unclean for the better part of his life.  
  
“It must be unbearable for you.... being human.” Sam stated. “I know you’ve had times where you were close to being something like us, but this is different, isn’t it? Feels different?”  
  
“It’s permanent, if that’s what you mean,” Cas quipped lightly, though his frown deepened and he broke the others’ gaze. “Yes... it feels like what you would call a ‘dream.’ Apart from that, however, it’s not just me being human — it’s also what was done after. I didn't listen, to Dean or Naomi, and now the consequences of that is what Metatron did to me has done more importantly to my siblings, to my home. What my mistakes could mean for them, for the world — I believe you are familiar with that feeling. That is why I’ve told you this.”  
  
Another long moment of silence ensued, though it was not the least bit uncomfortable. Sam glanced down to his no longer illuminated hands, limbs no longer aglow that familiar orange tint in his veins. “I am, yeah,” He said slowly. “But believe it or not, Cas... sometimes.... there is reason enough to believe that one day you can get back what you have lost, what was taken from you. There is reason to strive for that. And maybe, just maybe, there is a way to make it happen, even if you think it might be impossible or hopeless.”  
  
He met the former angel’s eyes once more, giving a small, watery smile. “There might be a way to get your grace back, to get you back to who you were before it happened. But even if we can’t, nothing’s changed. You’re still Cas, and that’s what matters. I know that getting back what makes you, well... _you_ without anything to hold over it can feel really good. Believe me, I know...”  
  
His fingers flexed, and his smile broadened, eyes stinging. “It feels liberating.” Confusion flickered in Cas’s features, and he opened his mouth to ask what the hunter meant when Sam elaborated. “I’m clean now, Cas. It had to be purified for the trials to work — my blood. It’s gone now — all of it; the demon blood.”  
  
And he didn’t miss the realization that dawned upon Castiel’s face, the relief, the nearly-hopeful look that overcame his expression. 


	3. Reprieve

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the lateness of this chapter~! I had planned to get it out sooner but got sidetracked with other things. Hopefully once I get the first base chapters out of the way, this story will be easier to flow and work with, since I have the premise set up and it's just the in between stuff that's hoarding me. But it's coming along. Enjoy.

Well past noon the next day, Dean was beginning to grow a bit fidgety, unable to sit in one place for too long, and had taken to pacing the confines of the dining area with his antsy demeanor. Kevin, munching on the home-cooked vegan meal he'd begrudged Dean into making, glanced up from his open notebook of tablet translations with a scowl. "Can you just, I don't know, sit down or something?" He asked in exasperation. "You've been pacing around all day. It's making it hard to concentrate."

Dean stopped his movements long enough to give him a stony glare and then resumed his awkward, restless pace. He was on edge, at the end of his rope, with all of it. Well after midnight, Sam had come down with another high-grade fever and had upchucked what fluids he'd been able to keep down. Cas had called for him, come barreling out of his bedroom, telling him that Sam had come to wake him from a nightmare and then become spontaneously ill. The older Winchester had helped Sam back to his room and cleaned up the trail of vomit leading from Cas's room to the hall, soothing his little brother with rubs to the middle of his back as best he could. He'd stayed awake the remainder of the night tending to Sam, placing a ice cold cloth to his forehead to lower the fever. It wasn't as high as it had been back at Metatron's place, but it was still enough to cause Dean to worry, and enough to have a negative effect on Sam's already tattered body.

He'd considered placing Sam back into the ice-filled bathtub, but Sam had piped up his displeasure at the idea, claiming he was already cold and if the ice-cloth didn't help, he would be more open to it, but only as a last resort. More than once, Dean had suggested the hospital, but Sam had discarded this idea too, though the elder brother knew Sam was right, that the hospital couldn't help him -- not with this. Castiel, who had relunctantly gone back to bed only after Sam had stopped spilling his internal waste everywhere, pulled Dean aside once they were sure Sam was okay enough on his own for a few minutes, and worriedly expressed that the ill-effects was having may not be just a consequence of the trials themselves. "What could they be, then, Cas?" Dean asked desperately. "What's wrong with him?"

"I don't know," Castiel admitted sadly. "When I was still an angel, I could sense his subatomic levels changing, morphing into something. What that is, I'm not sure. Or even if it's even taking place anymore."

"An angel?" Dean tried. "A demon? An Archangel, maybe? Something, right, something related to all of this... this supernatural crap?"

Cas's expression didn't change, his eyes shifting to the floor. "I can't possibly discern that, Dean. Not as I am right now. If I had my power, my grace, I might have been able to check his soul, though that potentially could have caused even more damage, leaving him broken beyond all possible repair. The state he's in now, though, I can't say for certain that he already isn't. Until he can tell us exactly how he's feeling, until we have a clearer picture of what these tasks have done to him, it's impossible to know."

He lifted his gaze to Dean's once more, apologetic. "I'm sorry. I wish I could give you a better answer." After a moment, he returned back to his room, leaving Dean in a whirlwind of thoughts.

He sighed loudly, frustrated, and reached out to seize his alcholic beverage before plopping down in the seat opposite Kevin, who was regarding him empathically. "I can't fucking take this, Kev." He confessed, realizing he sounded like a whiny kid and not abl to bring himself to particularly care. "All of it, all of this is just... it's just too much. Where the hell is God, huh, when you need him?"

"That's a good question," Kevin said slowly. "Chances are, somewhere we can't reach him, or the angels either, for that matter. One thing's for sure, we could really use his help right now." He paused, then set down his pen and leaned back in his chair with a frown. "Dean, your brother will be fine. He has to be."

"And if he isn't? Then he'd have done all this, all of these trials, all of this stupid crap for nothing. He put his body through hell, and for what? To... to just...." He trailed off, taking a massive swig and finishing off the bottle. "I can't lose him, not to this, not to any of it."

Silence filled the room for a long time, Kevin not quite sure what to say to cheer up the older Winchester. And perhaps nothing he said would've; Dean was going through a hard time right now, and despite how the elder man had roughly told him to suck it up when he'd been dealing with Crowley breathing down his neck, he wasn't about to repeat those very same words to him when he was so visibily distraught. Which was just something Dean Winchester didn't just openly display for anyone. There was a lot on his plate right now, Sam's health being the primary course, and to minimize that now... 

The sound of footsteps emerged from the hall, and both looked up to find Sam holding onto the wall for support, making his way over to them even as Dean hurriedly got to his feet and made a move to help him. "Sammy, what the hell are you doing out of bed? Man, you should be resting!" He pulled a chair out for the younger male though Sam swatted his hand away when Dean tried to grab his arm to lower him down.

"I got it, Dean, I'm fine," He assured, tone somewhat snipy, and he inhaled sharply to soften his voice. "Sorry... it's just... I'm fine. I promise. I rested enough. I feel better."

Dean gave a huff of disbelief. "Yeah, you look better. Seriously, Sam, what were you thinking, just coming in here? You could've fallen, you could've hurt yourself."

"Well, I made it, didn't I? I'm telling you, I feel better. I don't feel like I did last night, more... more like after I finished the second trial."

"That's still bad, Sam!" Dean protested. "You're still pale, you're still wobbly. You should have called for me if you wanted to come in here so bad."

Sam sighed minutely, running a hand through his hair with irritation. "Yeah, okay, you're right. I'm sorry. I just don't want you to have to be bending to my every beck and call every five minutes. I want to be able to handle myself. It's not going to go away overnight, Dean, I know that, but sooner or later, it will have to, so until then, I just have to barrel through it."

"That might not be the case, Sam," Kevin intoned solemnly. "Going from what Cas told Dean last night."

"Kevin --" Dean warned, but Sam had sat up straighter in his chair.

"What?" He asked. "Kevin, what did Cas say? Does he have an idea of what's going on?"

Kevin licked his lips hesitantly, then leveled his gaze with the younger Winchester and shrugged. "I don't really know. I'm not even sure he does. Dean said that Castiel told him that what you're going through right now may not just be some ill-effects from the trials you stopped."

"Then what?" Sam turned his gaze back to Dean, who looked about ready to off himself right there his eyes were filled with so much resignation. "What does he think it could be?"

Dean swallowed, shaking his head. "He doesn't know, Sammy, not for sure. Without his angel mojo, he said he has 'no possible way to discern that'."

Yet another silence filled the room, but it weighed more heavily on the air this time, Sam taking in what Dean was telling him. It wasn't much that he didn't already know, but it was enough to make him realize that on some level, this wasn't just from stopping the trials -- it was something else too. "Well, what ever it is," He spoke again. "I trust Cas. If he doesn't know, then he doesn't, and I'm not going to harass him for answers. We'll just have to figure them out together."

"That we will."

The attention of the three shifted as Castiel's voice reached their ears, the ex-angel emerging from the hall as he took took a seat at the table to join them. He smiled lightly at Dean and Kevin and gave a nod in Sam's direction.  "Hello, Sam. I'm glad to see you're up. You were quite ill last night."

"Yeah, I kind of was," Sam agreed awkwardly, vague memories from last night coming back to him. He'd been talking with Cas, helping him after this nightmare, and then.... _oh_. "Sorry that I, uh... threw up on your blanket, Cas..." He rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly in embarassment.

"You were ill. It wasn't your fault." The former angel told him, and then to his and everyone else's surprise, he laughed. "And if I'm being honest, I didn't really like that blanket anyway. I got a new, much less irritating to look at one from the supply closet."

Dean crossed his arms, fighting back a smile. "Okay, so on the list of things to remember: Cas doesn't like polka dots."

"They're irritating," Cas insisted, nose wrinkling with displeasure. "They're asinine. I don't see the point of them. They're just... a lot of _dots_."

Kevin gave a shit-eating grin, and chuckled. "Sounds like that's something to take up with God. The point of polka dots."

"I would, if my Father were to ever return." The former angel remarked, his smile disappearing. "But then of course.... even if he were to, it would be pointless, considering Metatron's made Heaven his own personal, isolated mansion and expelled us angels, taking our graces with him. It would be impossible for me to talk to God now."

"You know, now that we're all here and semi-coherent, that's one of the things we need to talk about," Dean announced, his attention tuned on Cas. "What the hell happened up there, man? What did Metatron do? Wasn't Naomi there? I thought she said she had him neutralized."

Castiel appeared to be somewhat uncomfortable with the idea of discussing it, but if anyone in the world deserved to know, he reasoned, it was them. He'd kept secrets from them for too long as it was, and it had lead to nothing good; plus, it was better to just come clean now and not have to bring it up again. "Naomi's dead," He said. "When I got there, she was already gone. He used her own weaponry against her, though I wasn't under the impression it could kill angels; still, Metatron broke free from what ever hold Naomi had over him and did away with her."

He paused, and his tone bordered on the edge of a crackle when he spoke again. "After that, he pointed his blade at me and told me I should have listened to her. I realize now, too late, as always... that I should have. He strapped me down, said that Heaven doesn't concern me anymore, and he made a slit in my throat. I thought without a doubt he was going to kill me. Instead, he did something much worse. He took my Grace, and sent me back here, and I awoke alone in the wilderness in time to see my brethern falling from the sky."

Sam shuddered. Although he'd heard the story in detail from Cas last night, it wasn't any easier hearing it for a second time. "I'm so sorry, Cas."

Dean nodded his agreement, gazing at Castiel with softened, sympathteic eyes. "Me too, man. More than that, though... I'm pissed as all hell, because that son of a bitch not only lied to us about Sammy's health, he deliberately used you in his scheme like some bratty kid trying to get back at their parents. I want nothing more than to go up there and give that jackass a right old punch in the --"

"Okay before we get too strung out on what we all want to do to Metatron," Kevin cut in, "We've got another problem, and it's sitting in the basement."

Sam raised an eyebrow. "You mean _Crowley?_ "

"Well, yeah." The boy started angrily. "I thought we were going to try and figure out what he was, and handle him. Dean said you were the one insisting to bring him here, and I kind of want to know why, I mean, the bastard killed my mother and -- "

The younger Winchester held up a hand, silencing him. "I know you're angry, Kevin, I do. I know this probably won't make much sense to you, but... the only reason I brought him back here was because that night, in that church, with my blood inside him.... he wasn't Crowley, not the Crowley we've come to know anyway. He was different; human. He was regretful, and honest, and wanted forgiveness, for someone to love him. I couldn't just... turn my back on him like that."

"So what are we looking at here?" Dean spoke before Kevin could, turning his gaze to his brother. "A mostly cured demon who has feelings and can empathize now? Like he’s a friggin’ human again? And he’s suddenly spouting some care bare bullshit about how he wants to be loved? Sorry Sam, but I’m not buying it."

His brother’s thinly disguised cynical response made Sam wince internally, never reaching his eyes as he shrugged noncommittally. "I guess so, yeah. That seemed to be the case. Or I mean, I’m thinking it was."  
  
His lips settled in a frown as he recalled that night in the consecrated church and how brief, colorful flares of Crowley’s humanity seemed to have peaked through the surface. That had been the first glimpse into Crowley’s damaged and tarnished soul, the essence that had been repairing itself. The tears, the desire for forgiveness – he was positive the man hadn’t been faking that. He’d even understood it, understood Crowley, wanting to know the very same answer to the question that Crowley had asked him. _Where do I start, to even... look for forgiveness?_  
  
"I haven’t had a real chance to go talk to the guy after all that happened, you know? With all the angels falling and all." He shook his head, certain that what he saw and heard hadn’t been an act, not in the least. "Man, but in those eight hours I was with him, I’m telling you, Dean.... that was a whole new side to him I saw. It’s almost like he wasn’t even Crowley anymore."  
  
Dean scoffed, jaw set skeptically, though he looked a bit less certain of his own judgement. "Oh, yeah, sure, okay, I’m sure he was a whole new man. Look, Sammy, even if you’re right... you didn’t complete the trial – which means whatever shred of decency Crowley’s obtained for the moment? It’s gonna vanish – it’s gonna wear off. This is just temporary, some.... some effect from your blood or whatever. It can’t last if he didn’t get the specialist treatment there at the end."  
  
"Not necessarily," Cas chimed in softly, expression thoughtful. "Perhaps Sam’s now purified blood could still affect Crowley, but in a way that doesn’t make it clear whether he’s human or demon or something of a different nature. Other than what we saw in that video, Sam is likely the only other person on the planet to have attempted such a task, curing a demon. We also don’t know if the trials he was undergoing would have made his blood stronger than just what a simple confessional did for the Father."  
  
Kevin nodded in agreement. "Yeah. I don’t want to believe he’s changed either, Dean, but if he has? Then Sam’s holding a bombshell literally in the palms of his hands. He can _cure_ demons now."  
  
Dean looked bothered by the obvious statement, but he seemed to have no more room to argue the point. He threw up his hands. "Okay, all right. So say Crowley’s human now or whatever... it raises the question. What the hell do we do with him? I’m assuming just killing the dick is out of the question."  
  
"I should go talk to him," Sam insisted, rising weakly from his seat. "Find out what he is first before we start making any decisions here. For now, I say we keep him locked up, chained up, so he can’t get away, and I’ll go talk to him, interrogate him, figure it out for sure."  
  
If it were impossible for Dean to look even more uncomfortable, he pulled it off. He paled watching Sam, quickly coming in front of him with his arms held in front of him, preventing Sam from making a move towards the door leading to the dungeon. "No, Sam, not you – not right now.  You’re still sick. Let me go down and talk to him, or Cas, or Kevin —"  
  
Something, some spark of the buried feelings since the church came surging back, and his brows furrowed. "Dean," He began, "More than any of you, I should be the one talking to him. He had nearly a dozen injections of my blood. This is my responsibility, and I should be the one handling it. Don’t," He interrupted when Dean opened his mouth once more, "You’re worried about me, I get that. And I appreciate it, Dean, but I’m fine."  
  
When his brother still looked unconvinced, a weary sigh escaped his lips and his tired hazel eyes reflected his pleading. "It’s just downstairs. He’s secured, he’s not going to do anything. I’ll call if I need you. But you need to let me handle this. I’m asking you to let me handle this — to trust me."  
  
Sam gazed at him beseechingly, wanting Dean to let him do this. What they’d talked about in the church was apparently still fresh in both their minds, as a knowing, haunted look crossed his big brother’s features and he broke contact. "You know I do, Sammy," He whispered, swallowing thickly. "You go do what you need to."  
  
Making a relieved but appreciative noise in the back of his throat, Sam lightly pat his brother’s shoulder as he slowly moved past him towards the door, making no moves to turn back once the knob was turning beneath his fingers and the creaking of the stairs resounded in his ears as his boot-clad feet descended them. At once, he was met with darkness, so strikingly contrast to the brightness of the rest of the house, and he made a mental note to get a light down here, even if only for their sakes. The only illumination was that of a small candle perched on the edge of a dirtied windowsill, and in its ember reflection, staring straight at him, was Crowley. The man’s only signs of restraint or injury were from the handcuffs still encasing his wrists and of course the marks marring his flesh from the collar, swollen and bruised. A pang of guilt entered the hunter at the sight. How unseemly, how...  
  
"Just going to stand there all day, Moose?" Crowley’s impatient voice rang through the darkness, and Sam could barely see the glint of the familiar eyes in the shadows. "Though in your condition, I guess that’s to be expected, hm? You’re in a right state, you are."  
  
Cautiously, Sam made his way towards him, eyes narrowing slightly. From his tone, Crowley was speaking the exact same way he had when he was still a demon. Had Dean been right? Had the purification simply wore off? "I guess I am," He replied evenly. "What about you, then?"  
  
Close enough now to see each other’s expressions, he was surprised to see something like regret flash across the demon’s features. "Then we’re in the same boat, I presume," He waved a hand airily. "Though I’d hazard to say you’re much worse off than I am. Physically, at least."  
  
Feeling as if his throat were closing up, Sam barely managed to get out what he'd been aching to ask since he'd arrived down here, since the moment he'd instilled Crowley with the last injection, "Crowley, my blood. Did it... did it work? You know... back there?" And then he waited, knowing the other would understand what he was referring to.  
  
"And here I thought you’d have the answer to that," Crowley deadpanned. After a moment, he sighed. "Too well, Moose. It worked too well." The first hints of bitter undertones seeped into his words, leaving his tongue with a mild hiss. "Agonizing, every moment since we left that cathedral."  
  
Giving no room for Sam to respond, he continued, face screwing up as he shut his eyes tightly, waving shackled hands into the air with a frustrated gesture. "Voices, over and over, in my head, these... _feelings_ coursing through me. Even now, it's almost like they’re still there, like an annoying itch, or a fly. And all of it was your fault. You did this to me, Moose. Yet, I can’t bring myself to hate you for it, despite how much I’ve tried; maybe.... all of my hatred has left me."  
  
Sam swallowed, another flicker of guilt passing his features. "Yeah," He agreed. "Maybe..."

Crowley snorted, and shook his head. "I heard you lot upstairs. The Squirrel is right, you know. I'm still a demon. But what you... what the trial did to me... it's made me more...."

"Human." Sam finished for him.

Crowley didn't answer, he simply surveyed him. "I heard you back there, too. At the church. What you confessed to Dean."

Sam shifted on his feet, his adam's apple bobbling. "You did, huh?"

"If I was as I am now, I might not have understood. Even though as I am now is because who I was then. It's all very complex, complicated, but because that happened, I was able to understand and continue to. Why your blood was working."

He waited for Sam to speak, but when he didn't he pressed on. "It's because deep down, even with all that was designed inside of you, you were still ultimately 'good', Moose. That soul of yours, no matter how damaged and broken, is still pure. Azazel may have tainted your blood, but he couldn't do it to your soul. Once you took on those trials, all impurities were washed out of your body, the demon blood included. You're what otherwise might be called a 'Saint', now -- the most pure human on the planet."

"I don't think --" Sam interrupted, but Crowley continued.

"Do you have any concept of what the trials have done to you, and not just your body?" He demanded. "I saw you bare before me in that church, drained, exhausted, half-delirious. I expect Dean's seen you much worse. From what I understand, these trials have never before been attempted -- have you cared to ask yourself why?"

"Yeah," Sam cut in. "Yeah, I have. And I don't care. Everything I went through, everything I'm still going through -- it was all worth it, if it means becoming clean. If it means being pure. If you have any memory, any good feeling about my blood being inside you, then you know, and you understand where I'm coming from."

Crowley regarded him for a moment before he answered, "I do."

"Then you have no right to question it. Neither do I. It's something I chose to do, something I wanted. If it's doing something to my body, my soul, what ever... I'll take it. I'll take it with open arms."

The words were like a conviction emerging from deep within him, a promise he'd made to himself already. Back at the church. How even if these trials killed him, he'd go through with them till the end. If it meant not letting Dean down, if it meant becoming pure, if it meant cleansing the world of demons. No matter what lay ahead, he'd take it readily and without preamble, because this was his purification, this was his cleansing. This was his salvation.

Suddenly, the world swam out of focus. Dimming. Darkening. He gasped as pain pulsated through him, pain unlike anything he'd ever experienced. Within seconds, he was yelling so loudly he thought his throat might tear, falling down onto all fours as sounds, sensations, the same eerie resonating noise emitted in his eardrums, like back at Metatron's. His hands were balled into fists, searing with pain, arms alight in that familiar glow.

Then there was Crowley's voice, and the door barging open, a small arm wrapping around his torso, yelling for Dean. He could hear his brother's panicked octaves, Castiel's too, but through it all there was something else, something stronger, something more than just the enochian whizz of resonating and indistinct voices yelling around him. Something calling, something speaking to him, but he couldn't quite decipher it... what was it....? Something beautiful, something beyond him....

_"Sam! Sam! Sammy!"_

And then it was gone and he was lying on his back on the basement floor, staring up into Dean's terrified face which relaxed as Sam's eyes found his. "Oh, thank God..."

"Dean?" He croaked. "What... what happened?"

But his brother had no response for him. Instead, his gaze had drifted, and Sam followed his line of sight and his eyes widened in shock. Blood was oozing out of the middle of his right hand, his palm, an odd circle shaped hole implanted there as if it had been carved, etched into the flesh. Wordlessly, he raised the other, finding the same shaped hole, fresh and bright red blood seeping from the wound. His head was still swimming with dizziness, body still searing with pain, and Dean was looking at him with horror he'd never before seen on his features, and just as suddenly as before, his head drooped forward and everything faded completely to black.

 


	4. Odds And Ends

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my God guys I am so sorry for the lateness! I keep trying to keep each chapter around a certain length, so I want to make sure it's quality enough and I double and triple-check it over many times for spelling and whatnot so I'm sorry it's so late lol. Thank you to you all who are reading! <3 I'm working on chapter 5 now and hope to have it out before the end of the week and get this fic going faster.

When Sam regained consciousness once again, it was with a gasping, throaty, pain-filled cry, the senses of reality amplifying as it morphed around him. All too quickly, the memory of passing out on the basement floor came rushing back to the forefront of his mind, his body still shuddering from the after-effects of what ever it was that he had just experienced, as though recovering from a mild seizure. Blearily, he blinked multiple times to refocus his vision as it came in a disoriented stare and struggled to think. He was lying in bed back in his room, covers strewn about as though they’d been shoved off, and he felt the weight of something cold and wet on his forehead, a damp cloth, no doubt Dean’s doing to bring down the fever. Looking down at himself, he saw that his chest was bare, which was aiding to lowering his body temperature, and recalling the holes, the blood, the horror on Dean’s face just before he’d collapsed, he languidly turned his gaze to his hands.

They were heavily bandaged, and up and down his palms to his wrists to his forearms was that familiar orange glow from the trials along with smudges of smeared, messily washed blood. It was pure torture to flex his fingers, even more so his hands, and he cried out, biting down on his tongue painfully to stop himself from hollering. He watched as the first splotches of red began to seep through the tourniquets, the wounds either still bleeding or have begun to start up again, egged on by movement. Attempting to prop himself up into a more comfortable position, he resulted only falling back onto the padded mattress in a weakened heap. Coughs protruded from his already raw and burning esophagus from his earlier screaming, and it was with a breathless cry that he rasped, “D-Dean...”

His brother must have either heard the coughing fit or had already been nearby, because seconds after Sam had called for him, Dean had rushed into the room, lifting Sam’s head gently and raising a cool glass to his lips. “Here you go, drink, Sammy.” The soothing voice coaxed him, calmed him, and greedily, he parted his lips to allow the liquid, which he recognized as water, to trickle inside, soothing his aching throat. Once he had finished most of it and was satisfied with the pain subsiding, he pushed the glass away and Dean relented the drink.

His green, concerned eyes met that of his younger brother’s, and Sam knew immediately what was coming — questions. Questions he was not sure he could immediately answer. Answers that he himself did not yet have.“Just what the hell was that back there, Sam? What happened?”

It was as though his mouth had become a desert all over again dry and painful. The gears in his mind were barely turning, barely able to process anything. “I…um.... I don’t really know, Dean,” He cleared his throat, chills running up and down his spine from what he was sure was a different reason than simply the fever. “All of a sudden, I just… I don’t know, keeled over. There was a lot of pain, and blood, and my hands were hurting like they did when I was doing the trials. But they’ve never bled before.”

Dean continued to survey him with that searching gaze as if trying to find some sort of hint of secrecy or deception, a look Sam had come to know only too well from his brother and felt a stab of irritation at before he broke it off and nodded, though the expression on his face was nothing short of bitter acceptance. “Okay, then. If you don’t know, then we’re just gonna have to find out some other way. Kevin said he’s gonna look over the demon tablet now to see if he missed anything that Metatron conveniently might have left out, like the fact that you’re dying because of these damn trials. If there’s anything, it should be there. In the meantime, all I can do is just sit here and watch you get worse, right?”

An even more bitter tone had overcome the grimace on his features, and Sam sighed wearily. “Dean,” He began, stare fixated imploringly, “I don’t want to burst this bubble for an easy answer, but I don’t think that we’re going to find out anything from the demon tablet. If it left out that the trials were going to kill me, isn’t it likely to think it’s going to leave out everything else too, like the symptoms, or even a possible loophole? I don’t think we’re going to get any answers from it other than what we already know.”

“Sam, don’t, okay, we’ll find it,” Dean insisted shortly, voice edging with barely restrained frustration. “We have to. No way in hell am I going to let you die again, you got me? Not this time. Not if there’s something I can do about it.”

Sam didn’t have the energy or the heart to tell him that there was a chance that there might not be any coming back from it this time. His brother had tried so hard to talk him off the suicide train back in the church, and he didn’t want to quench Dean’s hope, not right now, not when so much was already stacked against him. Though he himself wanted to live, wanted to spend the rest of his life making everything up to Dean, to proving that he wouldn’t let him down again, at the same time he knew just like he’d known when he’d submitted himself to the fact when he’d hallucinated Lucifer and his wall had broken down, there was a high probability that he might not just bounce back this time.

Instead, he gave a faltered nod, and Dean reached up to give him a gentle pat on the shoulder and returned his attention to Sam’s red-coated bandages. “I gotta wrap those up good again. They’re bleeding through. And here I thought they’d at least stopped for a couple hours….” He rose to his feet and grabbed the first aid equipment from Sam’s bedside table, wordlessly but gingerly cupping Sam’s hands in his lap as he attended to them.

The younger male hissed and grit his teeth and whimpered as Dean pulled the crusted over bandages away from his torn flesh, which as the cotton pulled away, revealed that they were worse than he had remembered seeing. Twin quarter-sized holes were in the direct center of his palms as though they’d been drilled there, and Sam could see the gaping bone and flesh around them, the wounds grotesque and sickening. It made his stomach churn, and he resisted the urge to spill up what bile remained in his stomach. He’d never been one to be particularly grossed out with their job and the things they had seen and done plenty of times, but from the uncomfortable look on Dean’s face, his brother wasn’t exactly handling it well, either.

“What I want to know is what these are and how they got there. People don’t just randomly get holes in their hands. I don’t know if it’s from the trials or what but that weird light thing keeps showing up and down your arms again so it has to be connected somehow.” He finished re-wrapping them, being as gentle as possible, though Sam had resorted to clenching his teeth until they grinded to keep from crying out. “I’m sorry, Sammy. I promise what ever it takes, I will get you better.”

“I know,” Sam slurred in a voice barely above a whisper, once his hands had been wrapped back up and he was guided back down to one of the fluffy pillows Dean puffed up for him to make him comfortable, his spinning, foggy head clouded by pain and tiredness and he closed his eyes. “I know you will, Dean…”

He didn’t hear Dean’s thinly repressed choked sob as he exited the room, pulled into the alluring peace of sleep once more.

* * *

Castiel knew many things.

He’d been told of stories, of lore, or legends by his own brothers, by Gabriel and Balthazar and Raphael and even Ana, told many, many things that they had depicted as important or of nature to their status as angels and God’s soldiers. He knew of humanity and sin and demons and evil, and good and forgiveness. He knew of blessing, and he knew of curse, and right now, what Sam Winchester was being exposed to, to him, was nothing short of a curse.

The boy with the demon blood, damned to destroy the world, who had instead saved it; Sam Winchester, the abomination, turned resonator for the Word of God, as though he were its very vessel. He could feel it, hear it, sense it, when he was an angel, and though his grace was now gone, leaving him completely human, that sense, that feeling, was still there. Sam was still resonating, and on a far stronger level than before. The trials had done something to him that even he couldn’t heal, transforming and shaping him into something he had no possible concept of.

Sam was suffering, dying, and there was nothing he could do about it. And for all he knew, he didn’t know if this time the man would be able to overcome it. The Winchesters had an undeniable track record when it came to avoiding death, but Castiel was certain that no more cards could be pulled, no more tricks or miracles could possibly save Sam. Not with Heaven emptied, not with God gone. Not with anything as it was right now.

Head bowed, the former angel sat with his hands clasped tightly together in prayer, for the first time as a human, hoping with ever fiber of his being that his Father would give him some sort of answer, a sign, despite the fact that all the times he had called before had resulted in nothing but empty, one-sided conversations. Though now, he realized, there was the possibility that the only person that most likely would be hearing his prayers would be Metatron. Still, he couldn’t just concede to such thoughts, or to Sam, on God himself. Sam was his friend, a soul who had suffered and gone through more than he should have had to for the sake of mankind, for the world. He wasn’t about to sit idly by and wait, even if it was no longer in his power to do anything at all for him. Except this.

Sam’s words from the night before came back to him, how calm and at peace the other man had been when he’d said how his tainted blood had been purified through the cleansing of the trials, how he was pure and clean at last. How despite the fact that he was dying, he was saved, good enough, at last. The blood that had dominated him all of his life, had corrupted him that Castiel’s grace had reacted with an overwhelming desire on more than once occasion to smite him where he stood, had never been less true with how he felt about the younger Winchester. It had never obscured Cas’s treatment of him, never imparted any judgement, not even from the moment Sam’s awed face came into his line of vision, hand extended as he breathed that amazed and stricken, “Oh my, God."

He’d fought alongside Sam as allies against that of Lucifer himself and the Apocalypse, against Leviathan and demons and angels alike. Sam was a comrade, a friend, as important to him as Dean was. While it was true he had a more established bond with the elder of the two, Sam had been the one to forgive him first, had been the one to save him from himself when no one else, least of all Dean, had seemed to care. Sam Winchester, the boy with the demon blood, had given absolute salvation to a fallen angel, and that was something Castiel could never bring himself to refuse in the same respect.

“Cas. Hey, Cas.” He was pulled from his stupor by a hand pressing down onto his shoulder. Dean’s hand.

Adjusting himself from his position, and swiveling his neck to relieve the cramping and aches that had developed from keeping his head in one place, he cleared his throat in greeting. “Oh, hello, Dean. How is Sam?”

“The same," The hunter sighed, relinquishing his hand and running it down his face in anxiety. “He’s resting now, but I need to go into town to get some more wraps in case they bleed through again.”

“I could come with you, if you wish,” Castiel suggested. Though the last time he’d proposed it, Dean had blatantly turned him down, angry that Cas had gone off on his own with the angel tablet. He was sure that there was a chance Dean might refuse the offer again. Though the elder Winchester had seemed more at ease with him when they’d gone off together to shut down Heaven, he wasn’t sure just how much of Dean’s earlier anger still existed between them.

But to his surprise, Dean nodded, sour expression flickering with just the hint of a smile. “That sounds good, Cas.” He reached over to the hook on the door for his jacket and gestured at the ex-angel invitingly. “I could use the company, and anyway...”

He turned, hand on the knob as he opened the door part way. “I’ve got some things I need to ask you.”


	5. Iridescent

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, hahaha, so I wound up finishing this quicker than I'd meant to, but this means I can get another chapter out before Monday now at the latest. :3 Plus I wanna get this story moving, so here you go, guys. The end of this chapter almost made me cry to write. I just have a lot of feels about Stigmata!Sam. 
> 
> And Sam/Cas.
> 
> And there's some Dean/Cas here this chapter too for anyone who ships that as well.

Though Dean had insisted on the company, the car ride to the store was stifling, quiet, and suffocating. As soon as Dean had finished speaking and headed out without a backward glance, Castiel had known that anything the other man was going to ask him was going to be about Sam and his condition, and what he knew about it. The fevers, the strange orange lighting, the sickness – it was something that Castiel admittedly had limited knowledge of, something he could only hazard a guess at. But it was clear that Dean, ever the responsible and nurturing older brother, would not take a word of anything otherwise.   
  
“I know you are going to ask,” Castiel began once the twenty minute silence became too much in the Impala, the familiar, peaceful car now feeling confining and uncomfortable. “I’m sorry, Dean, but I don’t know exactly what’s wrong with your brother.”   
  
Dean didn’t even look away from the road. “Don’t give me that, Cas. You were an angel, man, you’ve got to know something. You said before these trials were changing him, damaging him, and then that it might not even _be_ the trials after all, so I’m going to ask you again: what is wrong with Sam?”   
  
Castiel’s brow furrowed and he sighed inwardly. “I could only assume,” He explained. “It would not be a credible diagnosis, not by any stretch. I have retained a lot of my knowledge as an angel, and there are some theories that could possibly explain your brother’s condition. There is one in particular that I think Sam may be experiencing, but we would need to do extended research and confirm, and you will not like it, Dean.”   
  
“What?” Dean pressed, eyes finally redirecting to meet the former angel’s. “What do you think it is, Cas?” When Castiel looked hesitant, his gaze hardened. “I already don’t like it, I don’t like he’s going through this shit again, and I sure as hell don’t like you keeping anything that you might think it is from me. I know you and I have had our rough spots, but if you want me to trust you, man, I need you to be straight with me, especially if it’s about Sammy.”   
  
Castiel’s attention shifted to the wilderness outside the window before him for a moment, the former angel pondering what the other was telling him and gave a large exhale. “I think it’s something you and Sam both need to hear. Sam should know, just as you should. It would be more probable to tell you both when we get back to the bunker.” He paused, turning the full attention of his sapphire blue irises onto Dean’s once more.   
  
“Cas — ”  
  
“Sam would want to know, Dean. Haven’t you both lied to each other enough? Haven’t _we_ lied to each other enough? All of us? Isn’t it about time we all stopped keeping secrets?”   
  
Rebutted, Dean gave a delayed nod in agreement, unable to argue with Cas’s undeniably truthful reasoning. Secrets and deceptions got them nowhere, and if he wanted a fresh start with both Sam and Cas, he’d have to extend that same level of truthfulness. “Okay. But only until we get back to the bunker.”   
  
The rest of the trip, though silent once again, was far less heavier than it had been before.   
  
Once they reached the store, they shopped quickly, buying enough bandages and wrapping to last the week, give or take, depending on how much Sam’s hands bled. It was bad, but it seemed to be going off and on and not a steady pace, appearing suddenly one moment, then gone the next. The cashier regarded them oddly when they paid for the cloth and Cas threw in nearly a dozen twenty dollar bills, which Dean quickly scooped up and hurriedly finished paying for their items. They had barely reached the parking lot when a split-second later, it was all hell had broken loose.   
  
Dean landed painfully on the windshield of the Impala as he was blasted, groaning as he looked up to find ten or more demons surrounding them. Cas was lying on the gravel, hands splayed and scraped. He quickly scrambled back to his feet and reached into the passenger’s seat to seize his angel blade and Ruby’s knife, tossing it to Dean before the demons had managed to react, both of them now armed.   
  
One in the middle of the pack smirked, black eyes showing proudly, the demon wearing a young female who couldn’t have been more than nineteen years old. She tsked at them, waving a finger as though to scold children. “Dean Winchester,” She chimed. “Was wondering when you were going to show yourself. Been off our radar for a few days now. Where have you been hiding, I wonder?”   
  
“Ask your mother,” Dean spat, lowering himself back down onto the ground beside Cas, both of their weapons ready and flaunt. “So what do you want, huh? Other than trying to kill us? Don’t tell me you’re looking for your King, seeing as he’s our bitch and he's locked up tight and good so you’re not gonna find him.”   
  
She chuckled. “Please. You think we give a rat’s ass about what you’ve done with Crowley? All the more power to you, by all means, keep him. We serve a new master now.”   
  
“Abaddon,” Dean guessed, edges of his lips rising with a sneer. “So she’s taken over Hell, huh? Tell me, did she not like being fried extra crispy so she’s sent all you black-eyed bitches to get revenge?”   
  
“Funny,” Another demon quipped from the side, a man. “But luckily for you, no. We’ve simply come to relay a message.”   
  
Castiel’s eyes became slits, and Dean snorted. “Really, huh? What kind of message did she want to send? That she took over Hell? Yeah, kinda figured that, tell us something we don’t know.”   
  
“All right, it’s not for you anyway,” The girl demon quipped evenly. Her gaze left Dean and instead towards Castiel, and the hunter felt the former angel’s body tense. “Hello, Castiel. Congrats on emptying Heaven. You’ve done Hell a great service.”   
  
Cas’s nostrils flared, though there was a flicker on worry on his features. “What do you mean?”  
  
The demon giggled, raising a finger to her lips. “Ohhh, I don’t know.... just that those other little angel pals of yours? Let’s just say you’ve made them easy picking for us. They’re right here, on this little planet, where we can get to them. Some of them, we already have.”   
  
Castiel paled, though the glare only hardened on his expression. “You’re lying. Even if they’re cut off from Heaven, they will still have their juice, have the ability to fight back.”   
  
“Most of them,” She replied, with a mild-mannered shrug. “But not all of them. You see, some of them landed in lakes, rivers, seas, oceans, buildings, what have you. Not all of them are still alive. Not all of them were in perfect form when we found them, either, and oh, Castiel.... they know it was because of you. They _know_ , and they’re looking for you.”   
  
Cas seemed to have frozen. His blue eyes were wide with fear and guilt, his adam’s apple bobbling as he stood with his arms to his side, rigid, mouth tight. “No....”   
  
She giggled again. “Well, believe what you want, kiddo, but it’s the truth. And Dean,” She addressed him once more, “That brother of yours? Don’t think he’s going to get away with any of it, either. Abaddon’s got something big and special planned for little Sammy, don’t you worry. She’ll make sure he’s dead way before whatever it is right now that’s killing him does him in, believe me.”   
  
Infuriated, Dean took a large step forward, but it was Cas’s hand that held him back. He glared, yanking his arm out of his friend's grasp, though the demon looked simply amused. “See you both around, and next time be sure to bring Sammy out too.” Then she snapped her fingers, leaving Dean and Cas standing alone in the deserted lot.

* * *

 _In Hell, he never stopped screaming._  
  
 _Repeatedly, the cycle continued. For days, to weeks, to years, to ten years to a hundred. Maybe even a thousand. He’d lost track of the number, couldn’t remember even beginning to keep count. Perhaps an eternity had passed and he didn’t even know it. How long had it been, in any case, since he’d jumped into that bottomless pit and landed into the depths of Hell?_  
  
 _His flesh sizzled and melted and was pulled off of his bones, throat hoarse, raw and bleeding from the tortured shouts and vain cries as it all happened over and over and over again. Never stopping, never ending. He’d called for Dean, for Cas, for Bobby, for anyone, for everyone, and nothing, no one, ever came. Not that he’d expected them to begin with — that had been his departing wish for them after all, his one and only desire._  
  
 _Repentance, atonement, redemption. That was the reason he was here now. The mistakes that had brought him here, his own attempt to fix the world he had otherwise broken. The world had suffered because he had touched it and broken it. He did not want or expect salvation – not anymore._  
  
 _And then at last, there was nothing, and that scared him more than the probability of both Lucifer and Michael getting bored with him and turning their attention elsewhere. Had even Hell become too good for him, the damnable abomination that had brought about the end of the world with his arrogance, his thrive for power? Fear clutched his heart as every single part of him reformed, whole as new. The flames died out, and the darkness was penetrated with a daring, stray ray of light._  
  
 _He knew without knowing why, without preamble, without a doubt that the light was here for him, was calling for him, beckoning. And even without the flesh and blood vessel, even without those familiar sapphire blues or that sandpaper-like voice, he then knew who it was that was calling to him, reaching for him —_  
  
 _Castiel._  
  
 _ **I’m here, Sam,** it seemed to say. **I’m here.**_  
  
 _Cas. He struggled to communicate, praying, praying that this wasn’t an illusion, a trick by Lucifer and Michael, that his angel friend had come to raise him from the depths just as he’d done for Dean –_  
  
 _Then Castiel disappeared, as if ebbing away, and confused and hopeless, Sam Winchester was once again engulfed in flames, succumbing to the thought that perhaps the most torturous form of Hell was the manifestation of things one hoped for and wanted and he realized that beyond even the leering face of the Devil himself, nothing had ever terrified him more._   
  
He jolted awake to the sound of screaming, of someone calling to him and attempting to grab his wrists, and he stopped, went rigid, and realized the screaming had come from him and he was staring up into Castiel’s face. “Wha... C– Cas?”   
  
The former angel sighed a long drawn out breath in relief, a crease of worry on his forehead. “Sam, please try not to move abruptly, if at all, for a moment. There’s blood all over you and on your sheets. Dean’s gone to run a bath for you.”  
  
Dizzily, as if in he were still in a dream, Sam looked down at himself to see that Cas was right. His wounds were undone and had bled over, and there were splotches of blood on the white, creamy sheets and on his torso and pants. He took a moment to register it, mind still foggy, before he croaked, “What... what happened?”   
  
“We came back in time to find you tossing and turning in your sleep,” Cas answered gently. “The wrappings were just hanging soaked over and Dean thought it best to just take them off for some time since he wanted to get you cleaned off anyway.”   
  
“Oh,” Sam nodded slowly, blinking away the remainder of sleep.  
  
Cas watched him, lowering himself down onto the bed at the end of Sam’s feet. “Were you having a nightmare?”  
  
“No,” Sam couldn’t help but quirk the edges of his lips, a small smile settling itself. “No, actually. I was.... I was remembering.”   
  
“Remembering what?”   
  
“When you came to get my soul from Hell,” Sam elaborated, and Castiel cocked his head slightly to the side, as though stunned Sam had recalled it. “I don’t know how I do, but.... ever since I started the trials, I’ve been remembering things I shouldn’t. I remember a lot from the cage, but even when you told me you came to get me out, even when the wall broke, I didn’t remember that. But I remember it, the light, the way you called out to me, how even though I told myself time and time again that I deserved this place, that I wanted you to save me then.”   
  
Castiel’s frown deepened, and he shook his head. “You never deserved Hell, Sam. Not at all. You shouldn’t have made yourself feel otherwise. You deserved forgiveness, not punishment, even with everything that happened.”   
  
He reached over, placing a soft, comforting hand on Sam’s own, even though it was bloody and there was a gaping hole in the middle, and Sam wanted, for a moment, to pull back, to not stain Cas with his previously contaminated blood. But the look on the ex-angel’s face stopped him, and he looked away. “Sam Winchester, you deserve peace, forgiveness, love and more for what you’ve done for the world. Certainly not the damage these trials have done to you.”   
  
“I needed to be clean, Cas,” Sam found himself admitting. “I still do. My blood is clean, finally, it’s gone, but sometimes, I still feel – I still feel like I’m not good enough. For anyone. Not Dean, not you, not Kevin.”   
  
“I understand, Sam, and that’s why I think I might know what this is. This is just a possible theory, of course, but it seems the most likely, given what the trials are doing to your body.”   
  
“What?” Sam asked, raising his head with undisguised interest. “What do you think it is?”   
  
A second later, Dean entered the doorway, looking between his brother and his best friend, and the question was on his face, the exact same desire to know, and Castiel could not deny them it any longer. “Stigmata. The wounds of Christ.” He whispered.  
  
He turned to look at Dean, who appeared confused, worried, and angry all at once, and then to Sam, whose face was filled with awe and shock, before it broke, a dam of tears making their way down his cheeks as he hitched a sob, blood-stained hands reaching up to level with his eyes, but he was smiling.   
  
“Stigmata,” He repeated. “Stigmata. Stigmata. Oh....”   
  
And he curled before them, head bowed, hands clasped in prayer, and wept.


	6. Clarity

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, sorry for the lateness again and thanks so much to everyone liking/commenting on this fic. <3 I didn't expect anyone to look at it, so this is a wonderful surprise and I hope I don't let any of you down asjajdjsfsf.

Nearly an hour had passed before Sam was considered composed enough to be moved, allowing both Dean and Castiel to half-guide, half-carry his frail, weakened body from his bedroom to the bathroom. Blood continued to ooze at a steady, drippy pace from his hands and onto the floor in a trail that decorated the hallway to the base of the tub, and an odd scent had begun to accompany the wounds, a rose-petal, flowery-like aroma. Castiel politely turned away to give the brothers privacy when Dean began undressing Sam and helped lower him inside the tub, which began to turn red almost as soon as the younger hunter had sat down. He closed his eyes and  moaned in contentment when the warm water reached his wounds, mumbling a barely audible thanks.  
  
No one except for Sam had said a word after Castiel’s admission, though going by Dean’s agitated and preoccupied demeanor, and hard, shifty glances to Cas’s turned back once every two minutes wasn’t going to last much longer. Still, he remained quiet as he cleaned his younger brother in gentle, soothing motions that Sam seemed to appreciate greatly. He quickly washed Sam’s matted hair and his upper body, then his arms of the dried blood and grime, though he pointedly avoided his hands and respectfully asked Sam if he had the energy to finish the task on his lower body. Sam nodded dully, wincing as he took the washrag from his elder brother and slowly, so slowly it was almost frustrating, began to attend to his lower half. A small pat on the shoulder, and then Dean’s stony glare was completely upon Castiel, and the meaning was clear. He gave an inclination of the head towards the door and as soon as Dean had exited the room, the ex-angel followed suit.  
  
Once they were out of earshot, he immediately, predictably, rounded on him, almost causing Castiel to run into the elder Winchester. “What does it mean?”  
  
“What does what mean?”  
  
“Don’t you play dumb with me! Stigmata! What the hell does that mean, Cas?!”  
  
Cas raised a hand to motion to the hunter to lower his voice, and Dean grudgingly complied, dodging a glance in the direction of the closed bathroom door before he looked back to Cas once more. “It means that Sam has been chosen, blessed some would say, with the wounds that Christ bore upon his crucifixion.” The former angel explained. “I have never been witness to such a thing, but I’ve heard the stories and testimonies up in Heaven that some humans, those specially chosen, are given stigmatization as a form of salvation and healing. Judging from what the trials have been doing to Sam since he started them, it makes sense that this is what he’s been slowly changed with.”  
  
Dean laughed a disbelieving, bitter chortle. “Oh, really? Well, that’s just beautiful, isn’t it? So Sammy’s just _chosen_ to go through points of random bleeding and excruciating pain, and what, it can’t be anyone else? It _has_ to be Sam?”  
  
“My father has inflicted this upon your brother for a reason, Dean,” Cas argued lightly. “I know you are angry that Sam has to suffer. I share that same anger, but you saw how he reacted. He was overwhelmed and joyous when I told him what it likely – now most assuredly – could be. It’s something he wants. He wants salvation, so who are we to deny him of that possibility?”  
  
Dean turned his back to him, shaking his head, still wearing that incredulous humorless smile that faltered, just barely keeping his concealed panic and fear at bay. “And... and what? What happens to someone when they’re given these wounds, if that’s even what this is? Huh? They become the modern-day messiah or something?”  
  
“In a way,” Castiel intoned heavily. “Because of the trials, Sam has been able to gain entry into Hell itself, in spite the fact that it was done with the help of a Rogue Reaper, and rescue souls from the pit. The demon blood has been completely eradicated from his body, making it pure enough to cure demons. The effect may wear off, but the act of feeding a demon or another one’s own purified blood is what in Christianity is referred to as ‘Communion’ – or ‘to cleanse oneself with the blood and body of Christ.' Of course, Christ himself was able to perform the miracles your bible speaks of with this same method.”  
  
“What else is he going to be able to do with this? Cure the sick? Heal the blind?” Dean swallowed thickly, giving a momentary pause before he inquired, “Cas...will people _know_ about him?”  
  
“I don’t know,” He gave a shake of the head. “Perhaps. The concept of stigmatization was nothing more than hearsay to me before Sam. However, there are documented reports of Stigmata all over the world, some real, some fabricated. With minor research, I’m sure we can find similar cases and eliminate which ones are true from the false stories.”  
  
Dean continued to eye him with that dark, penetrating stare and then stiffly nodded. “You get to that then while I finish with him and get him to bed. I’ll come help when I’m done.” Without even waiting for a reply, he stormed back inside the restroom with the slam of the door in the ex-angel’s face.

* * *

The Men of Letters’ organization skills and ability to orderly expand and define searching was quickly becoming Castiel’s favorite thing about the bunker. Folders containing clippings and printed articles were aligned by not only the subject, but the year, row, and everything in between. Still, the concept of Stigmata seemed to have been as foreign to them as it had been with Dean, and he was left with selecting a few books at a time from one particular area to another in search of something that could tell him more about it. It was after the third book, a hard, thick cover structure entailing detail about purification and cleansing, but nothing of stigmata, earning him an hour of a night’s fruitless search. He heaved a frustrated sigh and pinched the bridge of his nose.  
  
Kevin looked up from his place at the end of the table, angel tablet and notebook still displayed before him along with an empty cup of coffee. “Nothing?”  
  
“No,” He lamented. “There are books detailing about the cleansing aspect, but nothing of what it is that I’m sure Sam’s condition has become.” He scanned the room. “So far, I haven’t seen anything about the process and condition of Stigmata.”  
  
A furrow of his eyebrows, and Kevin leaned back in his seat, lips parted breathlessly. “So... it’s Stigmata, huh...? You mean like the ‘Wounds Of Christ’ kind of Stigmata? That’s what Sam has?”  
  
Cas nodded evenly, sparingly glancing up as he flipped the cover of another book open. “It’s what I feel best describes what he’s currently going through. While it’s true the trials have never been attempted and Sam’s condition could be an isolated case because of that, I sensed before that there was something changing in him on the sub-atomic level. And if he was, as Metatron said, resonating with the Word, with my Father’s word, then it is likely Sam has become a true Servant of Heaven – despite the tribulations he’s had to endure practically since birth to deserve it.”  
  
“What do you mean? Wouldn’t that be true for anybody? To become deserving of something like that?”  
  
“It would, but it is especially true for Sam, and that’s what I think is making the Stigmata more profound on him. More sensible. A demon by the name of Azazel fed him demon blood when he was just six months old. Because of that, those in Heaven – and even Sam himself – consider him to be unclean and tainted by the evil dwelling inside of him.”  
  
He met Kevin’s stunned, widened eyes, and the frown settled further into his face. “I, myself, regrettably, once was foolish enough to think the same.”  
  
Kevin gave a delayed, awe-stricken nod, then rose from his place at the table and took the seat opposite of Cas, seizing one of the unopened books on the ex-angel’s ‘to read’ list and flipped it open. Before Castiel could even inquire what he was doing, the boy spoke first. “Sam’s my friend too. Reading that thing can wait until we know exactly what this is and how to stop it. This isn’t just that’s my duty, this is yours crap anymore. None of it’s that simple – if I’m in this far, I’m in it till the end, all the way.”  
  
It was even longer before they found what they were looking for, and even longer than that before Dean reappeared in the doorway, heavy bags under his eyes that were rimmed red, leaving nothing to the imagination on what he had been all this time, and neither Castiel or Kevin could blame him. “Whataya got?” He asked groggily, cradling a bottle of beer between his fingers.  
  
“Maybe something,” Kevin began, exchanging a glance with the ex-angel. “The earliest recorded case of genuine Stigmata is of a man by the name of Stephen Langton in England of 1222. There was another case two years later, a Saint Francis of Assisi from La Verna, Italy, in 1224.”  
  
“Both developed the palm-wounds, as well as several others that fit the testament of Stigmata. There are also more documentation of reports, such as Saint Catherine of Siena, Saint John of God, and Saint Marie of the Incantation. And more recently, by Brother Rogue in 1996.” Castiel finished. “A plethora of evidence, I’d say.”  
  
Kevin grimaced. “And... none of them lived that very much longer after they received it. Within six months, a year, two, all of them were dead. This is the real deal.”  
  
Dean sighed, ragged and tired, and leaned against the tiny refrigerator door, a hand over his eyes, chin upturned slightly. “So what you’re telling me here is... my brother’s gonna die. Sammy’s going to spend the rest of what little life he has hurting, in pain, constantly, twenty-four-seven, and there’s not a damn thing I can do about it. That’s what you’re telling me.”  
  
Castiel gripped the edge of the polished wood as he rose so hard his knuckles blemished white, expression pained. “I’m so sorry, Dean. I wish there was something more, some other answer, some good news I could give you. But I can’t.”  
  
“Yeah, I know. I know you can’t, Cas....”  
  
There was a stillness that hung in the air, Dean’s voice crackling with emotion, the ex-angel’s entire being aching with helplessness and grief for the loss both they were all going to suffer, because Dean was right. Sam was going to die, and it would be soon, with the already wrecked state his body was in from the tasks alone. For the first time as a human, he was going to have to watch someone he cared for die, and live with those feelings in the aftermath. He’d have to shoulder both himself and Dean in the absence of the younger Winchester, and it struck a pang that now existed deep inside him, his human soul, at the realization.  
  
A sharp intake of breath, and then a split-second later, Dean had removed his hand, revealing composed, even hopeful features. “Wait. Not you, Cas, but maybe.... maybe somebody else knows how to get him better. How to hold it off. Shit, I can’t believe I didn’t think of this earlier!”  
  
“What?” Castiel demanded, not liking the look that was on his companion’s face as the hunter set down his drink and at once began to head towards the basement door. “Dean, if you’re thinking of making a deal with Crowley, or something else that – ”  
  
“I’m not making a deal with him, there’s someone who holds stronger and better cards here than him or the three of us, and he can get him to us. Someone with enough horse power to help hold the effects off, keep Sam up and around for a while longer.”  
  
Realizing who it was Dean was referring to, Castiel made a strangled noise in the back of his throat and approached the elder Winchester warningly. “Dean, no – ” He made a move to block the door with his hand, but another beat him to it, shaky and jittery and pale white. Sam, looking even worse for the wear than he had earlier, was breathing harshly, and judging by the narrowed conjuncture of his brows, was not just from exertion.  
  
“Death,” He rasped. “You wanna make a deal with Death. Behind my back, make a choice that affects me without even.... ” He moaned, and Dean, though initially stunned by his brother’s appearance as they all were, wasted no time in attempting to help him. But this time, Sam did not concede to his his big brother’s touch and instead snarled and backed a few paces away from him, teeth clenched tightly together in his anger. “I won’t let you do this... I won’t...”  
  
“Sam,” Dean interjected, tone weary and worried, almost pleading. “Come on. You should be resting, man. Look, we can talk about this later...”  
  
He made a move to help his younger brother again, but Sam once more stiffened at his attempted help and denied it, stumbling as he held on to the wall for support. “No. I’m glad I wasn’t, otherwise you would’ve gone and done this without even caring if it’s what I wanted! Just like you always do, just like you did when you decided to sell your soul for me. Look where it got you then: a vacation in Hell!”  
  
His voice was rising several octaves, anger and general weakness beginning to blur his words together. “Has it ever... ever crossed your mind, Dean, that maybe I w-want this, okay? Has it ever occurred to you that I want this to be how my life ends? How I die? Pure and deserving of forgiveness.... deserving of Heaven?”  
  
“You can’t mean that.” Dean replied softly. “Not now. Sammy, you’re delirious, you’re not thinking straight. Let’s just get you back to bed, okay?” Dean’s voice was desperate in Sam’s ascending anger, but the other man shook his head quickly in denial.  
  
“No!” He shouted, and Kevin quickly made his way over to the hunter, placing a hand on his chest to try and calm him down. “You want to do something for me? You want to do something to make me feel better? Then just let me have this one thing. Let me make my own decision with my life here!”  
  
The first signs of frustration appeared in the crease of Dean’s eyebrows now, and he shifted on his feet. “Sam, stop. Stop it right now. I am not letting you die, dammit. Especially not from this. You can’t ask that of me.”  
  
“Yes, I can,” Sam growled. “If you can do anything for me, it’s trusting that this is what I choose, that this is what I want. I don’t want to stop it. Can’t you understand that? I need to have this!”  
  
“No, you don’t,” Dean rebutted forcefully. “You don’t need it! This is not a blessing, Sam, it’s a curse! This thing is going to kill you, not save you! How can you ask me to be okay with this? I’m not, and I’m never going to be, so you can just forget it!”  
  
Sam gave an indignant yell and his voice crackled with barely restrained rage as he glowered at his elder brother. “You can’t do this to me, Dean.”  
  
“Yes, I can,” Dean echoed his brother’s words, expression somber. “You can get pissed, take a swing at me all you want. But at the end of the day, I’d rather have you pissed and fucking angry at me than let you die. Hell, even if you could never forgive me for it, it’d be worth it, as long as you’re still breathing. If you want this, I sure as hell ain’t going to have no part in it, because _I_ don’t. I’m going to find a cure, whether you like it or not.”  
  
Without giving Sam time to respond, Dean stormed away, shuffling past Castiel, past the tables aligned with books and opened the door to his room in the hallway, and slammed the door shut behind him.


	7. Descent Within

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, okay, so I know it's been a few months since I last updated, and I'm truly sorry for that. I hit somewhat of a road-block with this fic and wanted to include some stuff from season 9, which I will be doing now that's airing.   
> Ezekiel? Yes, he'll be in it. Also, Metatron soon.

Almost two days later, Dean had made no bold moves to call or summon Death or go about any other plan he may have been making to enact in order to restore Sam to full health. But nor had he spoken to his brother or anyone else since their conversation in the bunker’s library, coming out just long enough to bandage Sam’s wounds and disappear before Sam could begin to get a conversation going, any kind of an attempt at an apology. He was still angry – and so was Dean, going by his body language – but Sam had learned what felt like a long time ago now how to understand the magnitude of what his brother was feeling, and understand why he couldn’t be accepting of the younger hunter’s choice. Many times, he wordlessly would open his mouth to try and begin to say something, some string of words to tell Dean he understood where he was coming from, but his older brother would finish wrapping his wounds, gently but spending no more time than necessary, as if he were on autopilot, and leave again back to his bedroom. It was becoming, more than anything else, redundant.   
  
Even Kevin and Castiel, whose usage of speech had diminished somewhat as well due to the tension surrounding the brothers, seemed to be becoming increasingly irritated with Dean’s behavior, but Sam encouraged them to drop it, to just leave well enough alone. The only person who was going to make his brother understand was him, and if he couldn’t get Dean to understand, then.... then there was nothing else he could do. It hurt like hell, and it made him feel like absolute crap to know Dean questioned his judgement, his decisions, his choices, once more. Their declaration in the church might as well have meant nothing, now. Still, he knew Dean was reacting like this out of fear and not knowing how to face a reality of losing Sam again. But while he understood that, and was regretful that Dean would have to go through life without him, he was not about to regret his mindset, his choice, to live the remainder of his life with what he considered a blessing.   
  
On the fourth day, while Dean was cleaning and re-wrapping his wounds, Sam broke the ice. “How long is this going to go on?” It was almost too inaudible to be a whisper, but he knew his brother heard him. “You not speaking to me? Speaking to any of us? Are you just going to stay pissed off at me for what time I have left?”   
  
Dean gave a sharp intake of breath that he exhaled through his nostrils, a sign of anger, but he averted his eyes even further to the floor and continued to focus on attending to Sam’s hands. Pressing his tongue to the roof of his mouth, Sam broke the stare he had been concentrating on his brother’s face and tried to mask the hurt that was showing in his expression. His eyes were brimming quickly, and it was taking all of his self-restraint not to make it even more apparent how much his brother’s refusal to understand and accept was hurting him. “If you don’t want to do this, just say so,” He found himself saying. “Get Cas or Kevin to do it, if you can’t even talk to me or look me in the face anymore.”   
  
“Then I guess I will.” Came his brother’s clipped response, a voice that he hadn’t heard in days, and he was suddenly wishing he hadn’t heard it at all. The initial shock that Dean had spoken to him was wearing off, and he’d barely opened his mouth to speak again when Dean gave a final tug on the bandages to keep them in place, and then was up and out the door again before he could see the tears that had begun to descend down his younger brother’s face.   
  
_Why?_  
  
Why couldn’t he just understand? It was just like Ruby, it was just like Amelia, it was just like every other godforsaken choice he’d made all over again. Had their conversation in the church just been a last-ditch effort to stop Sam from becoming a sacrificial, suicidal martyr, and not a crucial repair in their already damaged relationship?   
  
Lowering himself onto his side, Sam Winchester flexed his wrapped, orange-tinted hands, curling them up despite the pain it brought, and clenched his creme colored sheets as he lost rhythm with his breathing, vision blurring as sobs came in small, quiet cries that evolved into weeps that left him breathless, gasping for air as he curled up and cried himself into slumber.    
  
\-   
  
“I want you to take over cleaning Sam up for awhile. You or Kevin, it doesn’t matter who. Whoever decides they’re up for it.”   
  
It was the most Dean had spoken to him or anyone else in days, but Castiel found he was not as surprised as he should have been at the sudden declaration from his friend as he was angry. “Why?”   
  
“Because Sam said that if I don’t want to do it anymore, I could opt out, so I’m doing that,” Dean replied tonelessly. “I’ve patched that kid up more times than I can even remember, but this? This is something else, this is something he wants for himself, and I said before that I don’t want any part in it. I can’t look at him suffering like he is and know he doesn’t want me or anyone else to lift a finger to stop it.”   
  
It was sudden and spontaneous; in a matter of seconds, Castiel had shoved Dean against the wall, hard, arms barring the hollow of his throat as he pressed, holding him there, snarling with his rising and blaring ire. “This isn’t about what _you_ want, Dean,” He snapped. “This is about Sam! You can’t stow your inability to understand and accept what he has chosen long enough to attend to him?! You are his brother, and he needs you standing by him and supporting him through this, however much it pains you!”   
  
“Why don’t you fuck off, Cas,” Dean hissed vehemently, forcibly pushing the ex-angel away from him. “Don’t pretend to know crap about what I understand and don’t understand. I understand it, believe me, I get it, I know why he wants this. And I don’t agree with it, and I’m only holding off on calling Death’s ass here right now because I need to get the stuff for a summoning ritual. As soon as I do, I’m calling him.”   
  
“No, you won’t,” Cas realized. “You won’t because you already have everything you need in the trunk. You just don’t have the heart to go through with it, because despite what you’re saying, some part of you knows that you can’t take this away from Sam. You’re conflicted.”   
  
A fist connected with his face a second afer the words spewed from his mouth, and he glanced up to meet Dean’s hardened eyes as he huddled over, fingers pressed to his now bleeding lip. “Am I really conflicted, Cas?” The hunter retorted indignantly, shoving past him so hard he knocked into the ex-angel’s shoulder in his haste to return to his room.   
  
\-   
  
The fever had spiked up again.   
  
What had been a low-grade inconvenience for most of the day had turned back into a full-fledged heat wave inside of the younger Winchester, and he slept half-consciously, only vaguely aware that he was dreaming. Remembering. He was six-years-old again, standing in the little booth of the confessional, a soothing voice from the other side, a person whom he could not see from behind the little screen door, encouraging him to continue when he told him how he was different from other children, different from Dean, different from everyone. His soul was black where others’ – Dean’s –  were white; there was something freaky and dark inside of him and it scared him, though the Father assured him he was normal, that he was just as pure as all of God’s children, that his insecurities and fears were without preamble because God loved him, and by confessing those fears he had already been saved. Sam had come out of that booth feeling, not assured, but even more condemned that no one, not even those who claimed to represent Heaven, could truly comprehend how filthy and dirty he felt.   
  
He could remember it from even further back than then.   
  
He was three, almost four, seated on Dean’s lap as he read him _‘Knights of the Round Table’_ –  the story of King Arthur’s knights on a quest for the Holy Grail. His big brother simplified the words for him so he could understand as he read, but the thing that Sam understood most, as he stared in amazement at Sir Galahad whose face aglow in a basking light, was knowing that someone like him could never go on such an amazing and honest quest.   
  
_Because... I’m not clean._  
  
 _It doesn’t matter anymore. Because these trials... they’re purifying me._   
  
And then he was slitting the gut of a hellhound, coated in its blood, repeating the spell of the first completed task and the orange glow surging through his hands, and he could feel it coursing through him, as though an antiseptic had been inserted into his veins. The darkness from the tainted blood inside him was receding, vacating him, cleansing him. He was becoming clean, and he was clean, and he was finally, deservingly, pure. That his soul was no longer blackened by the truth of his tainted blood or tainted soul as the demons’ chosen ‘Boy King’.   
  
He was no longer bound to such a destiny, no longer the boy who had once been the vessel for Lucifer himself, the boy who had drank demon blood to fuel the powers given to him by said blood in the first place. He was no longer the boy who had lived to start the Apocalypse, and died to end it. He was no longer anything he’d been created to be by the hand of demons and the Devil alike. He was free to make his own destiny free of condemnation and manipulations from those greater than himself.   
  
But his brother didn’t understand that, didn’t understand the severity of Sam’s choice. He didn’t want to die, he didn’t want to leave Dean alone. That wasn’t the reason he was choosing this.   
  
This was so no one else could get hurt, no one else could suffer, because of him. This was his chance for salvation and absolution – it was redemption, it was acceptance from God and those who followed him, and he knew if he denied this chance now, if he rejected and found a way to hinder or stop the process inflicted by the Stigmata, that this chance may not, if ever, come again.   
  
“– ‘m sorry...”   
  
Oh, how he wanted to say that to Dean now. Just find a way to relate to him that this wasn’t about punishing Dean, or abandoning him. Oh, it was selfish, this choice, and he knew that, but he felt, more than any decision he’d ever made, that he was entitled to make this one, and to make it on his own. Still... it didn’t make it any easier, didn’t make it any less harder to know that eventually he was going to have let go.   
  
A choked, guttural sound emitted from his still sleeping frame, a whine. “I’m sorry....” _Dean. Please. I’m sorry._ “Dean...”   
  
“Sam.”  
  
He reached out towards the voice, the gentleness, the soothing tone. It wasn’t Dean’s voice, the one he needed the most right now, but still he squeezed his eyes tighter together, tears welling up behind his closed lids. “Cas,” He gasped, “I’m... I’m sorry.”   
  
“Oh, Sam. You have nothing to apologize for.”  
  
Blearily, he opened his eyes to find the ex-angel sitting at the foot of his bed, watching him sorrowfully. Awareness starting to return to him, he could feel the heavy weight of the damp cloth on his forehead as well as the heat pooling through his body, the cold sweat clinging to his skin. The fever was returning to a higher grade, and though the fogginess of it should have caused him to be delirious and out of it, right now, it was providing him with yet another sense of clarity. Just like at the motel, Dean holding his arm out behind Sam to prevent him from stumbling, as he rounded on him, head strangely clear. _These trials – they’re purifying me...._  
  
 “Yes – yeah, no, I do,” He uttered weakly, attempting to sit up. Cas made a move to assist, but Sam managed on his own, shaking his head with the hint of a smile. “Thanks, Cas. I’m okay.”  
  
Cas withdrew his hand somewhat, those stunning blue eyes piercing into the younger hunter with undisguised agony. “No. You’re not. Your wounds are beginning to progress. Soon, you’re going to be anything but ‘okay’.”   
  
Sam found he didn’t have the heart to even try to protest it this time.  
  
He broke the ex-angel’s gaze, turning it to his blood-covered palms that were oozing through two layers of bandages. “I know.” His entire body was aching, throbbing, searing with pain. The hand wounds themselves felt as though someone had drilled through the bone.   
  
“Yet you still do not wish to combat this.”   
  
It was a statement, and after a moment’s pause, Sam nodded to affirm it. “No,” He whispered. “I don’t. I still want this. I still want this, in spite of everything.”   
  
Castiel regarded him, as if searching for some sign of wavering hesitance or doubt, but found none. “It is hard,” The former angel spoke slowly, as though he were trying to figure out how to piece the words together, “ – for me to see you like this. It is even harder for Dean. I am beginning to understand why he does not accept this decision, why he wishes to try and hinder the progress as much as possible. If I still had my power, I don’t know that I wouldn’t try and save you from this as well.”   
  
“I know,” Sam reiterated. “I do, believe me, Cas. I know how hard this is going to be. For me, for you, for Kevin, for Dean. For all of us. But this... this is something I’ve prayed for my entire life, prayed to the angels, to God, about. Not necessarily _this_ , but – ”  
  
“Salvation.”   
  
Castiel met his eyes again. “Perhaps more than I ever did as an angel, I understand. You were dealt a misfortune that you should never have been meant to receive. Azazel’s infliction upon you was something I wish I had been aware and powerful enough to stop back then, had I simply known and taken an interest in you and your family.”   
  
“Cas, this isn’t something you could’ve stopped.” Sam protested gently. “You told Dean as much, remember? I was given demon blood, I was supposed to be Yellow Eyes’ leader, I was supposed to be the vessel for Lucifer. And I was. It was my own stupid mistakes and choices that brought me there.”   
  
He paused. “But this? This is something new, something else, something that is within my power to make sure is the right choice. God, the angels – they’ve given me that chance to set things right. The demon blood is gone and I’m finally deserving enough, pure enough, to go to Heaven when I do die. It’s why I wouldn’t want you to lift this from me, if you still had your powers.”   
  
Cas’s features reflected the pain that Sam felt. “Sam... don’t you see that you’ve always been deserving of Heaven,  deserving of salvation? Even with the demon blood? You’ve been allowed paradise there more than once – you’ve always had absolution. The other angels, they never understood, especially Uriel, why you would be granted such a luxury. But I understand, and I’ve seen it since the beginning when I first met you.”   
  
The words were perhaps the most lifting that he’d ever needed to hear. Surprised by the sincerity in Castiel’s voice, Sam shifted his attention from the former angel back to his hands, body shuddering with the exhale. “I never felt that way,” He admitted. “Even with everything that happened between us, especially early on, I never felt worthy or good enough to be in your presence because of what I was, what I had in me. I just felt like this – ” His expression contorted, lips curling in disgust. “ – _stain_ in the room whenever you were around.”   
  
He could no longer meet his friend’s eyes, breaking the gaze once more. After a long moment, he felt rather than saw the weight leave the bed and a pang of guilt stabbed him. _I upset him. He wanted to make me feel better, and I upset him._ “Wait, Cas, I didn’t mean – ” He lifted his eyes, preparing to swing his legs back over his bed and follow after the ex-angel if need be, but shock flickered on his features when he found his friend instead directly next to him, irises glimmering with unshed tears. “...Cas? I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you.”  
  
And then Castiel was looming forward, stubbled cheek pressing against the crook of his neck as he lowered himself into an embrace. Sam’s face was itching and and Castiel’s shoulders were probably uncomfortable as hell in this position, but if it were bothering him, he didn’t voice it. The man’s hands were gently pressed against the middle of Sam’s back, and Sam caught the whiff of lavender shampoo in the former angel’s hair – _his_ shampoo. When Cas finally pulled back, allowing their eyes to meet, Sam was still slightly stunned to see the sadness reflected in the sapphire hues, emotion he’d never before seen showing plainly and clearly and without shame.  
  
“Sam,” He whispered. “You were never impure enough to be denied an angel’s presence or care; friendship or salvation. Your blood may have been tainted – but your soul never was. Those who attempted to see and say otherwise are either dead or powerless, thanks to you. Sam Winchester, you shine brighter by far than any other human than perhaps your brother that I have ever met, and never for one moment did I ever consider you a ‘stain’ or a 'blemish' in the presence of my grace.”  
  
He retreated, his eyes never leaving Sam’s as he reaching for the knob. “More than that, after everything I’d done, after everything I’ve done to you – I was the real stain in the room after I broke down your wall.  After I hurt you, I wasn’t deserving of anyone’s forgiveness, least of all yours. Yet you were the first to lift me back to my feet and reach out to me, despite what I had done. You not only absolved me of the sin I committed against you but took it upon yourself to carry it for both of us – it is only fitting now that I help take some of that load, so you may be granted eternal salvation at last.”   
  
Speechless, Sam’s lips were parted in a somewhat breathless hitch, and he forgot for a long moment how to breathe properly. He tried to force himself to speak, to say something, because he owed Castiel a response, though the ex-angel didn’t seem to expect or want an answer. A gentle smile reached the dark-haired male’s lips as well as his eyes, and he motioned to the part-way opened door. “I’m going to go get you some more bandages. Some food as well. You need your strength.”  
  
Even before the door softly closed behind him, he knew the former angel had heard his shaky exhale as he recalled how to speak, and the quiet, crackling murmur of thanks.


End file.
